Sins of the Son
by Dante de Troy
Summary: Sequel to Hero's Blood. The Gray Ghost must make an unlikely alliance to combat one of the world's greatest evils, come to Gotham.
1. Default Chapter

Introduction  
  
April 9, 2003  
  
After Hero's Blood, I was unsure of whether or not to continue this pre- Batman series, but as I sat at home thinking about it, there are still so many unanswered questions about that Gotham that even notable Batman scribes have not tackled. If nothing else, perhaps my inept attempts to weave these threads into the Batman mythos might spark something within the mind of the Kevin Smiths and Jeph Loebs.  
  
The Gotham in Sins of the Son is as different from the Hero's Blood Gotham as that Gotham was from the one we all know and love (or hate). World War II has come and gone, and Thomas Wayne is no longer Gotham's lone mystery men. The world around him is changing, with evil barely bothering to hide in the shadows. This Gotham is the one that has begun to slip into the darkness that Bruce Wayne will one day combat.  
  
But Thomas is still the man who concerns us. Who were those people around him who helped him build the foundation of what Bruce would one day employ to bring Gotham back to the light?  
  
As always, I am first and foremost a fanboy. Keep your eyes open for some prominent Gothamites of yore and for some faces that will one day be famous. or infamous.  
  
As before, I hope that you enjoy this tale, a Tale of Pre-Batman Gotham, Sins of the Son.  
  
Sincerely,  
  
Joshua "Dante" Epstein 


	2. Prologue

Sins of the Son  
  
PROLOGUE  
  
(Author's Note: This story is set roughly five years after the events of Hero's Blood)  
  
Even in those places held as the epitome of intelligent thought, beauty, and kindness, evil grows. Hitler came forth from the lakes and snows of Vienna, Genghis Kahn from the broad, sweeping plains and mountains of Mongolia, and Borgia was raised within sight of the palaces of Rome. Gotham City was not Rome, but from its steamy depths, evil arises nonetheless.  
  
Gotham's Starlight Hotel soared high above its neighboring buildings, a study in raw power, a white monolith that rose like a titan from Gotham's dark soil. It's pristine façade, however, hid an insidious heart.  
  
Gathered around a dimly lit table in the penthouse suite of the Starlight were four men. Their intelligently refined faces were masks of cold, heartless detachment. These were men who were capable of anything and had, in their twisted pasts, done things more horrible than most men dare dream of. Their deeds were, quite literally, the stuff of nightmares for millions dead, millions unborn, and millions doomed to carry what they had seen until the day they died. Sitting in well-upholstered chairs, drinking brandy, and smoking cigars, these men contemplated their fall from power and how Gotham would fit in raising them up again. Their guttural voices fell flatly in the otherwise quiet room, voices that many still woke screaming from every night.  
  
"He is here?"  
  
"He is."  
  
"Has he any idea of our presence?"  
  
"If so, he has shown no sign. Our agents report that he has received no unusual correspondence, visitors, or other sorts of communication, other than what one might expect, given the circumstances."  
  
"What course do we take, then?"  
  
"We have two choices. We can take this opportunity and rid ourselves of him. None of us is apt to forget for what this man is responsible. He has been a thorn in our side since the moment of his appearance, and has caused us countless problems, even disregarding the greatest of his crimes against us."  
  
There was silence among the gathered men. A careful ear could hear the soft thrumming of fingers on the oaken tabletop.  
  
"Or we can leave him be. He may leave without our taking any action."  
  
"What is the true likelihood of that?"  
  
There were nods of agreement from around the table.  
  
"Then we are in agreement. He is to be eliminated. The only question that remains is how."  
  
A man who had not yet spoken raised a finger.  
  
"I have a solution and I have been waiting for just such an occasion to employ it."  
  
"Then we shall leave him to you. Be swift."  
  
"Do not worry. My solution is both elegant and permanent." 


	3. Chapter One

Sins of the Son A Tale of Pre-Batman Gotham  
  
Chapter One  
  
1946  
  
A soft rain fell on a quiet Gotham City. For the first since he had donned the cloak of the Gray Ghost, Thomas Wayne's mind was not full of thoughts on the state of the city, its crime, and its problems. Today Thomas stood in front of the family of the one man who had been his constant companion since he was young, before the evils of the world had made him bitter and cold. Winifred had been the one bit of light in the darkness that had become Thomas' world. And now he was gone.  
  
Rain trickled slowly from the brim of his hat as the reverend read his words, though Thomas was sure the old man had long since memorized them.  
  
"Ashes to ashes."  
  
Thomas felt an unfamiliar ache deep in his chest as he watched the casket being lowered into the ground. He had never been close with his father, so when Solomon Wayne had shuffled off the mortal coil, it had been as something almost expected. This, though. he should have noticed. He was supposed to be a great detective, and he hadn't seen his oldest friend growing frailer by the day. The way his step had become a shuffle, his breath short. all of it. for the life of him, Thomas had never been able to imagine life without Winifred. Now that life was a reality.  
  
At the foot of the grave were the Pennyworths, Winifred's family. His two sons Wilfred and Alfred both watched intently as their father was lowered to his final resting place, both holding one of their mother's hands. They bowed their heads as the last prayer was read. It was then that Thomas approached them.  
  
"Mrs. Pennyworth, Wilfred. Alfred. I'm sorry. I wish that there had been something I could have done for him."  
  
The crushed old woman looked up at the large man who had spoken to her and tried to smile.  
  
"We know, Doctor Wayne. I know how much you loved him. Almost as much as he loved you."  
  
Alfred stayed behind as Wilfred led her away to their waiting car. He was a tall, slim man, not too far removed from Thomas in age. His eyes had a hawk-like glare in them. This, Thomas could tell, was a man who had seen most of the horrid things that the world could present. In another time and place, he might have tried to befriend him. But today was not the day.  
  
"Alfred."  
  
A thin hand sliced into the air between the two men as Alfred raised his arm.  
  
"Don't even begin, Doctor Wayne. Don't even think to begin with me." Alfred's face was far more weathered than the last time Thomas had seen him. "My mother can hold to whatever beliefs she may choose, but I know you for what you are. The worst kind of man. One who lets someone else, someone's husband, someone's father, enter into what might as well be indentured servitude. My father wasted his life serving your family, and for what? A small plot of land far from his homeland? Some small remembrance from a spoiled aristocrat?" Alfred spit on the ground to the side of his father's grave. "That to you, Doctor Thomas Wayne. I'll thank you to leave my family alone now."  
  
Tightening his trench coat, Alfred turned and strode to where his mother and brother were waiting. Thomas watched him go and bit back tears as he clenched a fist. The pain could easily have overcome him, but as he looked up, he saw the sky begin to darken even further. Looking down at his wristwatch, he saw the time. It would be dark soon and the Gray Ghost had better places to be than a graveyard.  
  
Thomas sat crouched atop the roof of the Gotham Plaza Hotel across from GBS and watched as a streak of green shot skyward. He didn't like the Lantern's presence and never had. Thus far he had made sure that their paths never crossed. Green Lantern seemed to draw freaks to him, a new breed of criminal. Dangerous, to be sure, but they made such a ruckus whenever they tried anything that they would never really amount to much. He knew that he was better suited to deal with Gotham's less high-profile menaces. Below him he could see the sprawl of the city, laid out for all to see but, somehow, just for him. It bustled again, as it had in years before. The men were back from the war, but that meant more than just working men returning to their jobs. It meant a return of the kind of men that had forced the creation of the Gray Ghost. Men like Lou Maroni's son, Salvatore. Sal was a beefy man in his early twenties; his predator-like gaze had only been heightened by his time in Germany. Right now he and two large men were standing just outside the door to James Andretti's delicatessen, glaring down at the owner. Even though he couldn't read their lips, the quivering expression of fear on James' face told the tale. The Gray Ghost tucked away the binoculars he'd been using to observe them and tossed his rope downward, sliding to a better vantage point. Maroni and the thugs had moved in a bit closer to James, the two men on either side of the small deli owner.  
  
"Come on, Jimmy. We don't want to see anything happen to this beautiful little place of yours. If you stop paying for our protection, I can't be responsible for what might happen."  
  
That was enough for Gotham's shadowy protector. Years of playing the role of mystery man had honed Thomas Wayne's skills, and he fell upon the criminals with righteous force and stunning accuracy. With careful precision, he hurled a heavily weighted lead ball at Maroni's head, striking the fledgling mobster directly in the temple, rendering him unconscious. He went down in a heap just as a gas canister exploded at the feet of the two toughs, making it all but impossible to see. By the time the smoke cleared, the two thugs were laying on the ground, a typed note pinned to one of their jackets.  
  
"Mister Andretti's delicatessen has other protection. Your services are no longer required."  
  
Andretti looked around for any sign of his mysterious rescuer, but could find none.  
  
Thomas stayed low on the rooftop and watched as the police collected the unconscious forms of Maroni and his two thugs. They would, of course, be free in a matter of hours, but they wouldn't disturb Mr. Andretti again. Satisfied, Thomas climbed into the Car and headed home.  
Alfred Pennyworth sat silently in front of the window of his hotel room, clutching the letter his mother had given him. His father had penned it shortly before his death and given it to her for safekeeping until she could give it to Alfred.  
  
"My dearest son,  
  
We both know that these past months have not been easy for you. Though I don't pretend to understand what you must have seen in Poland, I know that it cannot have been anything less than the stuff nightmares are made of. I know that you have done great work for our beloved homeland. That makes what I ask of you that much harder. Thomas Wayne needs your help. Before you crumple this letter and burn it, I ask that you hear me out.  
  
He is a proud man, and would never admit that he needs anyone's help, but he does. He takes a great deal on himself. He has always seen himself as Gotham's guardian and has, in these last few years, become so engrossed in that role that he has become a very dark man. I knew him in his youth, and he was so like you. Full of idealism, hope for the world, and a belief that he could change it. I had always encouraged that attitude in him, as I did in you. But now he will be without me.  
  
I know that his well-being is likely of very little concern to you, but he is quite possibly all that holds this city together. If you do not believe me, go to the old Maroni Brothers' warehouse on the far end of town. I know your skills; and have no doubt that you will be able to gain entry. What you find there will convince you of the truth of my words.  
  
I love you, my son, and I always shall, in this world or the next. Make me proud,  
  
Your Father."  
  
Alfred stared out the window, his eyes full of cold fury. He had always despised how his father had let himself be chained to the Waynes and now he was asking Alfred to do the same. He couldn't believe that he was even considering it. But he had to know. 


	4. Chapter Two

Sins of the Son A Tale of Pre-Batman Gotham  
  
Chapter Two  
  
Wayne Manor was one of the few seemingly unchangeable pieces of Gotham. Even during the lean years of the war, it had sat intact, aloof, resting in the hills beyond Gotham's limits. For Thomas Wayne, just barely thirty years old, it was as alien and changed as the furthest desert he had ever seen. He walked its halls alone for the first time in his entire life. It seemed as if, in the past few years, the world had conspired to increase the weight that Thomas Wayne bore on his shoulders and decrease his ability to do anything about it. First his father, then Winifred. and even now, there were rumblings from Gotham's underworld.  
  
He found himself at that same study window of years before. It was before that window that he had contemplated Gotham's future. It was before that window that he had mourned Walter Donne and it was, before that very window, that the Gray Ghost had been born. Now he stood before it again, looking for answers, praying to whatever god might answer him that he be given a solution, an answer, anything to help him understand why it would always be those who deserved life the most had it stolen from them.  
  
The grandfather clock in the study chimed twelve and Thomas began the long walk to his upstairs bedroom when he heard a soft buzzing from his office. Some months ago, he had installed an experimental device in the warehouse where the Gray Ghost operated. It was designed to trigger an alarm if any attempt was made to breach the premises by force. Racing down the stairs, he grabbed a small satchel containing a spare costume and bolted for the garage.  
  
The neighborhood which housed the dilapidated Maroni Brothers' warehouse had grown even seedier in recent years, but the locals all knew that it was little short of sheer stupidity to go anywhere near it. The fact that someone was attempting to penetrate the Gray Ghost's lair was either a tribute to their genius or their idiocy.  
  
His cloak and mask donned, Thomas Wayne, the Gray Ghost, sped away down the winding road that led through the woods to Gotham City. The police had long since given up trying to follow the gunmetal gray car that sped through the city streets. In the years before he had returned to take his father's place at what had recently become Wayne Enterprises, he had toured Europe and had even spent several years racing cars through the streets of such ancient glories as Paris and Rome. The well planned streets of Gotham presented no challenge to him.  
  
There was no car parked in sight of the Maroni Brothers' building, but that meant little. If anything, it meant that whoever was attempting to gain entry had enough presence of mind not to leave his vehicle in plain sight. Thomas quickly climbed the ladder that led to the roof and moved to the skylight entrance. He saw, from his vantage point, a slender figure descending down a line from the other skylight to the floor. The intruder made almost no noise as he slid along the floor, examining the various neatly organized workspaces that made up the Gray Ghost's base.  
  
Slowly, he slipped beneath the skylight and stood on the catwalk that ran the length of the warehouse. Theatrical effect, he'd found, was always a valuable tool. He was backlight by the light of the moon as he stepped forward and spoke.  
  
"Many have tried to find their way here. You are the first to succeed. You will live to regret it."  
  
The black clad figure spun around and bolted for the line that was still dangling from the skylight. With astonishing quickness, he began to climb the rope. The Ghost pulled a small metal disk from his belt and hurled it toward the figure, intending to stun him. The rope, however, had been jostled by the sudden ascent, and slipped just a bit from its mounting on the roof. Where the intruder's head had been, there was now just rope, and the thin projectile sliced through it with ease. The figure began to hurtle to the floor, but the reflexes of the Gray Ghost were such that before the rope had even begun to tumble, he had attached a second line to one of the overhead pipes and was swinging downward to catch the falling figure. His arm wrapped around an impossibly thin body and his nose caught a whiff of something almost familiar. He landed and saw, for the first time, the figure in the clear outline of the moonlight. The curves of the body were unmistakable.  
  
"You're a woman!"  
  
A cool voice emerged from behind the cloth mask.  
  
"How perceptive of you."  
  
He reached a hand for it, but snatched it back in pain as it was hit hard by the trailing foot of the woman as she finished a backflip, evading his grasp.  
  
"I must apologize, but I really can't stay. Adieu!"  
  
With that, she pulled something from her belt and a line seemed to shoot straight up, attach, then pull her toward the roof.  
  
By the time Thomas made it to the roof, she was gone. All that she left was a small note.  
  
"Lovely meeting you, we must do it again some time. The Sparrow."  
  
He tucked the note into the pocket of his jacket and went downstairs. He had to pack. 


	5. Chapter Three

Sins of the Son

A Tale of Pre-Batman Gotham

Chapter Three

Thomas again sat alone in his study, mulling over the night's events. Laid out before him on the heavy dark oak of his desk was his journal, its leather cover, the color of blood, held the pages on which he had entrusted his most private thoughts. The room itself was empty of sound or movement save the slow swing of the grandfather clock pendulum and the skritching of Thomas' pen across the page.

_It was, I suppose, inevitable. The trend toward costumed adventuring has already drawn a fair number of the fairer sex out of their homes and onto the streets. This "Sparrow" is but another symptom of this perhaps irreversible syndrome. Yet who am I to cast stones? The skeletons in my closet, in the Ghost's closet more than suffice to render and criticism I might have of costumed vigilantism. Where, then, does the enmity I feel come from? Fear, perhaps? After all I have seen and done, it is possible that I've lost my nerve? Is she my equal? Am I hers? The skills she possesses, her agility, grace, beauty… hmm… Perhaps there is another possibility, one I am only now consciously considering. I live in a well-ordered universe of my own creation. My secondary existence is but a tool for the preservation of that order. She… she is chaos. She is change. And she may be something else as well._

He laid the pen down and let the page sit out to dry. He could not help, though, but to think of the Sparrow. There had been something familiar in her, something that had tickled his memory, tickled it still. Teasing, as a stray thread against the skin. Finally, he resolved to put it out of his mind for the time being. He turned his concentration back to his work and his journal. Again, the began its rasping dance across the page.

_Enough of this nonsense about the Sparrow. My informants within the Underworld, tell me something big is happening. Territorial struggles with thugs of unknown backing. I'm told that this mysterious opposition has been troubling the Italian families' operations for the past year. Apparently, taking advantage of the depletion of law enforcements' ranks by the war in Europe. The timing demonstrates both a superb understanding of tactics, coupled with their almost Hitleresque rise, makes me highly concerned. While I have done my best to bring an end to the mob's rule in Gotham, even I will admit that they provide a stabile presence in the city. They play by a certain set of rules, rules which allowone to anticipate their actions and reactions, making decisive action possible. This new player has a new set of rules, making my role infinitely more difficult. More data is needed to determine how best to deal with these interlopers._

He knew, of course, that he was eventually going to come face to face with the new cartel. He smiled as he mused on how it would actually be mask to face., not face to face, when the confrontation finally took place.

As he walked the echoing halls of the manor, he was suddenly and viciously beset by a feeling of emptiness. The halls, which had been his lifelong home, now felt cold and ominous. The suits of armor seemed to glare down at him. He realized that now, with Winfred truly gone, not off to bed in his nearby cottage, he was truly alone in this cavernous house.

Trying to shake the chill that threatened to overcome him, Thomas walked determinately down the corridor toward the garage. Striding through the manor's cavernous passageways, he passed the portraits of his forefathers. The foreboding gray and black pigments told a tale that stretched back to predate Gotham itself. It spoke of the generations of Wayne men, shown stern and somber, who had, from these very halls, guarded their little corner or the world. It was with a mixture of morbid pride and regret that Thomas realized he too would someday occupy a place on those walls, enshrined in oil on a bed of canvas.

He tugged on his coat as he climbed behind the wheel of the powerful Ford. Its engine roared to life and dried, dead leaves swirled into the air as he slammed down on the accelerator and whizzed toward the city.

Alfred ran a slender finger around the rim of his glass, filling the room with a quiet tone. A mirthless grin spread across his face before he drained the glass of its contents. The whiskey, thick and strong, burned sweetly as it slid down his throat. He breathed heavily and set the glass down on the end table, its contact with the surface echoed in the empty space. He still wore the jet black suit that he'd worn to his father's funeral. The funeral he'd had to let Thomas Wayne pay for. It turned his stomach that after all he'd done, all he'd seen, he didn't have the means to bury his own father. Instead, Thomas Wayne had done it. He had done it. He had driven his father until he couldn't go anymore and then had the gall to act like he had a right to even be at the man's funeral. Oh, Wayne had appeared remorseful enough. They always did. Rich aristocrats doing their duty, presiding like kings over the deaths of men who were little more than glorified slaves.

Below him, the lights of the city were spread out like a million fireflies. Were he in a better frame of mind, he might have fount it beautiful, even breathtaking. Foul with crime it might be, Gotham City possessed a dark, sensuous beauty, like a black widow. Alfred's eyes glistened at the though about the unfairness of it all. Ten years of hell, putting his life on the line to expose the grotesqueries perpetrated by evil men, and for what? A world where rich playboys like Thomas Wayne lived, where cities were ruled by slime, and where good, decent men like Winfred Pennyworth passed into nothingness.

He shook his glass, rattling the ice cubes against the cheap crystal. The harsh clatter grated against him and he set the glass down on the side table with a heavy clank. He looked to his other hand, which still held the letter his father had left him. He had puzzled it over in his mind time and time again. How could Thomas Wayne be anything more than what he seemed? He was just another millionaire playboy. Yet, there was something in his father's words that rang in his mind, something that pointed to… he didn't know what.

There was a quick tap at his door which jarred him out of his melancholy ponderings. With a soft moan, he stood and moved toward the door. As his hand fell toward the doorknob his sixth sense began to tingle. Who, other than his mother and brother, knew he was staying here? No one, and both of them had taken their leave of him hours ago to retire for the night. That being so, who was knocking on his door?

He took a step back while putting on a drowsy-sounding voice and saying "Ahm.. hrm… one moment, if you please." He reached the bedside dresser and removed his service revolver. Cautiously, he reentered the main room, revolver held down low and ready. As he was about to open the door, he heard a sharp step on the other side and leapt backward just in time to avoid being hit with the door as it flew inward behind the force of the foot that had smashed into it. Instinct took over and he fired two shots in quick succession toward the door and was rewarded with a wet slap and satisfying groan.

The soon-to-be-late intruder clutched at his stomach and pitched forward toward the carpet. Instinctively, Alfred leapt forward and stopped the fall, preventing the telltale thud that such an impact would emit. For some, the effort might seem wasted. After all, the sound of two gunshots was more than enough to bring hotel security, but Alfred knew better. For a man like this, it would have been standard practice to make sure that security had better places to be than his room. The softness of the tap led him to believe it had been the assassin's intent to shuffle him off the mortal coil in his sleep, so there would have been no sound of his body hitting the floor.

He knew that his time was limited, however. There was undoubtedly a second man waiting somewhere for his comrade to return with word of his success. Every second wasted was another second closer to that second man realizing that all was not well. Alfred pulled the comforter from the bed and rolled the dead man's body onto it. He grabbed a spare belt and wrapped it around the bundle. Taking a quick look out the window, he saw that he was correct about the second gunman theory. There was a large man waiting near a black sedan at the curb, trying hard not to look like the thug he was.

With a wicked grin, Alfred used his pocketknife to remove the frame of the window and set it off to one side. Grunting, he lifted the gunman's body over his head and sent it hurtling out into the cool Gotham night.

By the time he would have heard the distinctive smash of the body into the roof of the car, he was already out the door and headed for the nearest stairwell. The only question on his mind was where to turn to next. In this city of filth, who could he trust?

Thomas was nearing the city limits when he heard the call over the police band. The victim had been identified as Vincenzo Fiorelli, a low level thug for hire. Victim, Thomas thought to himself. Not likely. Someone got the better of him tonight. The question is twofold. Who handled Fiorelli, and what had the thug been intending to begin with?

Alfred sprinted down the alley, his heart and mind racing. That was imprudent, he thought. I should have left the killer's body where it was. Now, his friend will be looking very hard for me.

As if on cue, Alfred heard footfalls behind him, coming fast. A man running, he knew, running to catch him. Ahead was nothing but a blind alley. Damn, he thought. Trapped. Stopping, he turned and faced his oncoming enemy in a fighting stance. He knew that he would have to think quickly. This man knew that Alfred had dispatched his partner, and would not take him for granted. He trusted his training, but as his opponent approached, Alfred realized what he was dealing with. The man was easily twice his size, but not in a slow, lumbering way. The speed with which he was coming down the alley was a testament to his quickness, and he ran on the balls of his feet, not a flat-footed slugger, then.

The man slowed to a walk and pulled his revolver from a shoulder holster concealed within his coat.

"So, you limey prick. You killed Vinny. Must think you're pretty hot shit, huh?"

"Only compared to some."

"Smart mouth, too. Lets see how smart it sounds chewing on lead."

"Such a crude means to deal with such a small man as myself. Surely a fine specimen of man such as yourself needn't resort to firearms to accomplish his goal."

"Heh, right." He leveled the revolver at Alfred, a crooked smile crossing his face. "Say goodnight, Gracie."


	6. Chapter Four

Sins of the Son

A Tale of Pre-Batman Gotham

Chapter Four

"Say goodnight, Gracie."

Alfred saw the thug's knuckles tighten as his finger prepared to squeeze the trigger. All of a sudden the light from the streetlight above was blotted out by an shadowy figure.

"Good night, Gracie!"

The air went out of the thug's lungs with a "whoof" as the unseen assailant landed a vicious blow to his midsection. In the murky light, Alfred could make out the shadowy shapes of the two men throwing blows at each other. What few blows did land on the second man, the larger of the two, didn't seem to faze him at all. He moved quickly on his feet, lightly sidestepping the thug's seemingly feeble attempts to bring him down.

"Aw, come on ya big lug, you can do better than that." The voice, like coals over a grate, rasped out of his defender's throat while lightning quick jabs flew at the would-be assassin.

"Uh oh, pal, looks like you're winding down a bit."

The thug was swinging wildly now, trying desperately to land something, anything on his obviously stronger, more skilled opponent.

"He's on the ropes, and here comes the champ with a one," A hard shot to the gut. "and a two," a rapid blow to the side of the head. "and a three!" The darkly clad man's right arm swung upward in a graceful, deadly arc, snapping the thug's head backward, with his body rapidly following. The thug fell roughly into a pile of garbage bags, solidly unconscious.

"And that's it, it's all over!"

Alfred's defender was bouncing up and down, waving his hands in the air. Settling, he turned to Alfred.

"Now you, pally. What did our buddy the punching bag over here want with you?"

"Ahem… I'm afraid I've caused him and one of his associates a bit of distress this evening. "

"Okay, so you're the mug that's sent old Vinnie back there to an early dirt nap. I know this is the pot calling the kettle black, but we don't really cotton to vigilante killers around here."

"They've really only themselves to blame. There I was, enjoying a pleasant drink, and our dear Vincent decided to interrupt my contemplations armed with a foul temper and a .38. I can hardly be held responsible for marksmanship failures."

"Hunh. Well, suppose you tell me what they wanted with you, huh?"

"Before I make any suppositions on that point, why don't you enlighten me to your identity, my good Samaritan."

As his rescuer emerged from the shadows, Alfred could make out the distinct shape of cat-like ears protruding from the man's head.

"You can call me Wildcat. Now, make with the 'suppositions', pal."

From the rooftop above, Thomas watched the scene unfold. He had observed this "Wildcat" on several occasions before. Being a man of means and a bit of a boxing aficionado, it hadn't taken him long to surmise the man's true identity. There was no mistaking Ted Grant's three punch knockout combo. He listened closely, however, not just because he had a hunch that tonight's festivities were connected to the rising new power in Gotham, but because he felt a sort of responsibility for Alfred. He owed his father more than could ever be repayed, and if he could watch over Winifred Pennyworth's son, then he would do just that.

Below, Alfred was attempting to concoct a reasonable explanation for what had transpired that evening.

"Well, Mr. Wildcat, I'm really at a loss. I've only come to town these last two days to see to the final arrangements for my father, an employee of one of this town's high and mighty. His funeral was today and tonight… this."

"I'm sorry about your old man, pal. Really, I am. But that doesn't explain why someone hired a couple of lowlifes to bring you down. Something tells me this ain't about your old man, this is about you."

Wildcat took a step closer.

"I watched you, pal. You were ready to take that clown on if you had to." Without warning, Wilcat's fist shot out toward Alfred's face. The Englishman nimbly slapped it to one side and swung around into a fighting stance, stopping a heartbeat short of hurling a knife-edge blow at Wildcat's neck.

"Nice moves, bud. I've seen em before. You're SAS, my guess is you ain't been out more than a year. Either that or you just keep in really good shape."

"Six months. A little less. You had no intention of striking me, then?"

"Buddy, SAS or not, if I'd wanted to 'strike you', I would have. But here's what I think. Someone doesn't like the fact that an SAS agent, or maybe you in particular, has rolled into town. Either you know something and don't know what it is, or you know what it is someone doesn't want getting out and you ain't telling me. Either way, you're in a mess, pal."

"While I appreciate your analysis sir, I haven't the foggiest idea what you're getting at."

"Have it your way, pal. See ya 'round."

Wildcat turned and strode off down the alley.

"Thank you again. Oh, and by the way…"

He turned around, looking over his shoulder at Alfred.

"If you'd have laid out Primo Carniera that expeditiously, perhaps I'd have been able to afford a weekend in Bath."

Alfred smiled.

"I'm a bit of a boxing fan, old man. I'd best be off."

This time it was Alfred who walked out of the alley, passing by a somewhat stunned Ted Grant.

"I gotta learn some new moves…"

Thomas allowed himself a slight smirk as he monitored the exchange. He might have known that Alfred had spent time with the SAS. The man's powers of deduction were obviously keenly developed.

This would bear more investigation. There was something to Grant's insinuations that Alfred's time with British special forces, or something he'd learned during his tour, was the reason behind tonight's attack. The question remained, who hired Vincenzo, and what was it that Alfred knew that was so dangerous?

From the brightly lit windows of the Starlight Hotel, a lean man looked out over Gotham with a very displeased look on his face.

"Fiorelli has failed. It appears our Mr. Pennyworth will live to see the sunrise." He turned to his associate, seated in a large wing-backed chair.

"I do sincerely hope that this was not your 'elegant' solution."

"Please. Do not insult me so. I had no real expectation that those two ham-handed imbeciles would actually succeed in dispatching Pennyworth. The man may be a bit off his game of late, but he has handled far dicier situations with great panache. No, it was necessary to gauge his abilities, and to gauge the response from the city's…costumed community."

"And are you satisfied?"

"I must say, I was a bit surprised. I had expected the evening's activity to draw a bit more attention. There are persistent rumors relating to an individual who has caused a great deal of trouble for the Falcone family."

"You're speaking of this 'Gray Ghost'?"

"Indeed. A mob hit gone bad, it would seem right up his alley, if he is indeed real. Instead… Wildcat. Unexpected to be sure, and it bodes caution. Wildcat has ties with the Justice Society, and I do not want to see them entangled in this matter. That could become very unpleasant."

"At least we agree on something. Now, I want your assurance that Pennyworth will be dealt with."

"Oh, most assuredly. I believe I must try something a bit less direct. Perhaps, given the proper prodding, the good Mr. Pennyworth might be directed to deliver himself to us. Oh yes, that's quite delicious. I can think of nothing I'd rather have more for breakfast than Alfred Pennyworth's bleached head on a platter."

"Sickening…"

"Watch your tone. You may play at leading this motley for now, but do not forget yourself."

"Of course. I shall leave this matter in your hands then."

"Good. I've only to plan the next step…"


	7. Chapter Five

Sins of the Son

A Tale of Pre-Batman Gotham

Chapter Five

Dawn was creeping upon Gotham City as Thomas wearily made his way back to Wayne Manor. He had spent the night eavesdropping on various seedy establishments in the city's West End, trying to obtain some inkling of who might be behind the attacks on Alfred Pennyworth. His first theory had been that the Falcone family had some interest in the wayward ex-spy, but no one, from the lowest of Falcone's henchmen to a man third in his chain of command, had any knowledge of the night's events beyond a passing reference to the thug Alfred had dispatched.

With his cloak and equipment securely hidden away in one of the manor's crawlspaces, Thomas allowed himself the luxury of a small brandy and some time with his journal.

This night's investigations have proven less than fruitful. Not only have I lost track of Alfred Pennyworth, but I have failed to make any headway in discovered the identity or identities of those behind the attempt on his life. The Falcone family, for once, is beyond the scope of my investigation. Strangely enough, some of the lower-ranking members of their family appear to be moonlighting for this hidden emerging power. I cannot even begin to guess who this might be, but they are well organized, and apparently possess significant financial resources, to be able to entice men to work outside of the purview of Falcone's organization.

He sipped at the brandy, contemplating what he'd written, when his musings were jarringly halted by the sound of the door knocker from the main hall.

Thomas caught himself at the last moment, almost calling for Winfred to see who was calling, and the echo of the man's soft, precise british tones rang in his ears as he traveled down the stairs to meet his guest.

He was momentarily startled when he opened the door and saw uniformed Gotham Police officers standing before him.

"My apologies, gentlemen. I didn't mean to keep you waiting. As you may have heard, my associate passed away recently and I've yet to find someone to fill in for him. What can I do for you?"

"Mr. Wayne," The slimmer of the two said. "I'm Inspector Loeb and this is Sergeant Montoya. We're sorry to bother you sir, but we need to know if you have any information on the whereabouts of a Mr. Alfred Pennyworth."

"I saw Mr. Pennyworth yesterday at his father's service, but not since. He and I are not what you would call friends. Out of concern though, for my associate's son, may I ask why you're looking for him."

Loeb frowned and shared a look with his pudgier comrade.

"We're really not at liberty to discuss an open investigation, Mr. Wayne. If Mr. Pennyworth should contact you, however, we would greatly appreciate you letting us know."

Wayne nodded.

"I most definitely will, Inspector. I do hope you find him. I would hate for anything untoward to happen to him, especially so soon after his father's death."

"Right. Well, thank you for your time, Mr. Wayne. We'll be in touch."

Thomas watched as the two policemen walked back down the path to their patrol car. Loeb had been on his list for months, one of many of "Gotham's Finest" in the employ of the Falcone family. Bullock, however, was on a different list. One of the few policemen the city had left who stubbornly refused to take Falcone's money. He's kept a discreet eye on the man, surreptitiously intervening on his behalf when it seemed as if Falcone's underlings had decided to remove that particular thorn. He'd been able to gauge by Bullock's reactions, which the man wore on his sleeve, that the police weren't trying to bring Alfred in for his own protection, but because the powers behind last night's events had enlisted them to aid in his demise. This added another layer of complexity to the problem. Alfred had proven himself resourceful, but he couldn't say if he was resourceful enough to evade the combined might of Gotham's underworld, the police, and the unidentified players who wanted him dead.

Across the city, a dingily clad Alfred Pennyworth, dressed in clothes acquired at an obscene price from a vagrant, was acting very interested in the contents of the dumpster before him. His true purpose, of course, was to listen in on the radio conversation emanating from the black and white police car just ten meters from him, while the officers assigned to it were getting their morning coffee.

While he was not surprised that the police were now after him as well, he was a bit shocked at how quickly the grimy gears of crime were working to grind away at him. If he'd harbored any thoughts of leaving Gotham and its apparent poor intentions towards him behind, they would have faded upon learning that the city's law enforcement establishment was now hunting him. They were sure to be watching the local bus depots, train stations, and even the dirigible ports.

As the two policemen emerged from the coffee shop, he feigned a coughing fit in order to hide his face until they had driven away.

He was at a momentary loss as to what his next action should be. If he'd been back in Europe, there would have been any number of resources he could have called upon to assist him. But he was on unfamiliar territory here, without anyone to turn to and with a price on his head. He knew that he could evade capture, but that was only a delaying action. Whoever was behind his pursuit, they would surely be watching for signs that he'd made it home, and when he did not, they'd know he was still within their reach and would come for him. It seemed a more direct approach was in order.

He reached into the dumpster and pulled out a tied-off sack that held a change of clothes, something not as gamey as his current garb but suitable for trespassing unnoticed on the turf of the city's undesirables.

He kept to the alleys and underpasses, quietly making his way along the seedy underbelly of the city, heading for the docks, which experience had taught him was always a good place to ferret out information from men of ill repute.

As he trekked through the city's steamy, rotten, forgotten places, he was astonished the level of pure squalor that permeated what appeared, on the surface, to be a modern miracle of order. His own journeys had shown him that crime was everywhere, as was poverty and disease, but Gotham made even London or post-war Berlin seem a garden spot. At least the Germans were determined to rebuild their nation, economically if not militarily. But the people he saw huddled around flaming barrels and tucked into old, abandoned stores appeared completely devoid of hope, as if some crushing weight were being laid on them. He'd only seen faces like that once before, and the experience had haunted him ever since. It had been why he'd left the SAS, why he despised men of privilege and power, the men who condoned and made such conditions possible.

It was with an almost sick feeling in his stomach that Alfred began to taste the salt water in the air, stifled though it might be by the pungent aroma of sewage and human waste. Even in the middle of the day, the poorly lit taverns and cesspools on the waterfront were well populated. He was sure to be able to accomplish his mission.

He began with the first bar he came to, a place with a nearly rotted-away wooden door of what appeared to be oak that called itself "The Merman's Pike". Inside he found himself in a familiar setting. The dim lights and heavy haze of smoke that hung like a fog over the tables put him in mind of dozens of similar places he seen across Europe. This was a place for desperate men.

He settled in at the bar, disguising his native accent behind a thick rasp and shrill cough.

"What'll it be, bub?" The barkeep asked him.

"Whatever's cheapest. Bub." He put undue emphasis on his aping of the man. He wasn't trying to avoid attention, quite the opposite, in fact.

"Ain't seen you around here before. Who you workin' for?"

'No one. I'm just off the boat."

"Oh yeah? What boat would that be?"

"The one your mother stopped off at last night. What's it to you what boat?"

"Just makin' conversation, pal. You better watch yourself. Here's your cheap beer. Try not to choke on it."

Alfred sat, nursing the spew that the bartender had served him, and did his best to look surly. It wasn't long before a tall, thin man made his way to the bar and seated himself two stools down. He ordered two of the local brewery's better concoctions and slid closer to Alfred.

"You were pretty rough on Buck, there, stranger. Here, maybe something that doesn't taste like the river out there would improve your mood."

The man spoke like someone trying not to speak beyond the ability of men of lower intellect to comprehend. He chose his words carefully, not sounding too smart, but not dumb either.

"Thanks. Did you want something?" Alfred rasped.

"Like Buck said, you're new here. I was wondering if you were looking for work."

"Maybe. What kind of work are we talkin' about?"

"Nothing much really. We like to have men about, men like you, to be eyes and ears. Keep a look out for people or things we're interested in."

"Who's we?"

"Oh, you don't need to worry about that. My bosses don't like me throwing their names around. Let's just say that they can afford to pay you enough that you wouldn't need me to buy you the next round. Assuming you like that brew more than Buck's cheap sewage."

"Might be interested. Watcha need me to do?"

"Well, right now we actually have a bit of a problem on our hands. There's a man we're looking for. He caused us some pain recently and we'd like to locate him. If you happen to be the man who lets us know where to find him, you won't regret it."

"Who is this guy?"

"Name's Pennyworth, Alfred Pennyworth. He's a limey, a little taller than you, probably bit younger. Black hair, black eyes. Only thing is, the cops are after him too, so he's probably laying pretty low. But, like I said, if you happen to run across him, just let me know. I'm Fred Duncan."

"Well, Fred Duncan, you got yourself a man. If I find this mick, you want I should nab him?"

"He's British, not Irish, and I wouldn't if I were you. He killed a couple of my boys last night, so you're probably just better off letting me know where he's at. I'm usually here 'til about ten or so at night."

"Fine. I'll let you know if I kill him."

With that, Alfred slunk out of the bar. It had been a stroke of luck, running into Fred Duncan on his first stop, which made him suspicious. But, if his plan was to work, he'd have to keep playing the part. He paid some low-life a wrinkled bill for a pack of cigarettes, and acted as if he were smoking, taking up a good spot about twenty meters from the door of the Pike. He spent hours there, watching men come and go until finally Fred Duncan emerged. Ten o'clock, on the dot.

He's nothing if not precise, Alfred thought to himself. Then, keeping a safe distance, he slunk off in pursuit of Fred Duncan.


	8. Chapter Six

Sins of the Son

A Tale of Pre-Batman Gotham

Chapter Six

Thomas Wayne had always been an adept student of anatomy, but even he could find nothing remarkable in the photographs of the late Vincenzo Fiorelli's body. Shortly after he'd left for college,his late father had developed a rather inexplicable fascination with photography which, while odd, lent itself nicely to his rather futile undertaking this evening. A small darkroom adjoined the main study where Thomas normally did most of his work, but tonight, even the contemplative surroundings provided no answers.

He flicked the switch of the hulking tape recorder on the table next to the chemical vats and began to speak.

"Thanks to my association with the city morgue, I was able to obtain access to the subject's remains. A closer examination of the wounds confirm the cause of death as massive external trauma and internal injuries consistent with a fall from a great height. This comes as no surprise, given the number of witnesses that observed the event." He retrieved a sheet of paper that the coroner had provided to him and proceeded to enter its results into his findings.

"My own toxicology analysis seems to confirm the coroner's in regards to blood-alcohol toxicity levels. Mr. Fiorelli, apart from apparently indulging some time earlier in the evening, had no significant amount of liquor in his system. Test also show negative for narcotics, again not surprising, as most families discourage drug use in their minions, except in rare cases. Trace elements show no sign of any stimulants or…" His voice trailed off as a particular annotation grabbed his attention.

"Curiously, the subject's blood shows extremely high levels of adrenaline, which would appear to be consistent with the thrill of his attempted murder, but should have been diluted by the his copious loss of blood."

He took another look at the photographs, particularly the cross-section of Fiorelli's pectoral muscle tissue.

"Examination of the pectoralis major reveals significant increase in muscle mass over a very rapid period, judging from the tearing. This could be explained by an extremely rigorous exercise schedule, but judging from the amount of fat cells contained in Fiorelli's stomach tissue and gluteus maximus, I find this extremely unlikely. It is possible that the rapid muscle development may be a result of some sort of pharmacological stimulus, a steroid of sorts. But I've never seen a steroid act this fast."

He tapped his pencil against the paper and switched off the recorder. All of this added up to something, but he couldn't lay his finger on it. Vincent Fiorelli was stronger and, quite possibly, faster than he had any right to be. What was the reason though? If someone had developed some sort of rapid-growth steroid, what was it doing in the body of a low-level mob enforcer? Something was tickling his brain about the results of this steroid, but he couldn't quite place it.

Leaving the darkroom, he headed back out into the study and started digging into the old files of medical journals that were stocked there. If anyone legitimate had been working along these lines, there would be some indication of it in the annals of the industry.

After hours of digging, he finally did come across what he was looking for in a relatively ancient article from a then-up-and-coming pharmaceutical researcher for Bannermain Chemical. He postulated that it was possible to cause a rapid increase in human muscle mass and density, but that such changes would be unstable and likely impermanent.

Strangely, after April of 1940, there appeared to be no further developments and the research disappeared from the journals altogether. Curious.

It was times like this that Thomas wished that he had someone to work with, someone who could help him do the legwork for things of this nature. Well, if nothing else, he had a clue. Not much of a clue, to be sure, but a clue. At least part of the solution to this riddle lay in this chemical steroid and where it had been between 1940 and now.

Closing his notebook, he turned his attention back to the matter of Alfred's whereabouts. For man who was both out of his country and without significant funds of his own, he'd done a remarkable job of slipping neatly through the cracks of the net Gotham's Finest had thrown over the city. Not that it was any great feat for most criminals these days, given the state of the city's police force, but from every indication, they'd been doing their absolute best to find him, devoting more manpower than he'd seen mobilized in years. All of this supported his hypothesis that someone very highly placed, or at least with highly placed connections, wanted Alfred Pennyworth found very, very badly. Gotham's police department ran on dirty money, and to achieve this much effort, there was a lot of that money in play.

He knew that, often, to cure a disease, you had to treat the symptoms. If money was being thrown around Gotham's underworld, he'd have to salve that rash before he went any further. Alfred seemed remarkably capable of fending for himself, but Gotham had nastier surprises up its sleeve than most anyone could suspect. A particular pale-skinned behemoth he'd encountered last year when tracking down a drug dealer at the docks was just the first of many that sprang to mind.

He locked the notebook in the metal desk that was one of the few pieces of furniture adorning the otherwise bare office in the warehouse that served as his center of operations. Taking a moment to inspect his equipment, he whisked the cloak from its resting place on an old mannequin and settled it around his shoulders. Domino mask and fedora firmly in place, he tugged on his gloves and headed for The Car.

As he navigated his way through the back-street warrens of downtown Gotham, his lip curled into a wicked grin. He knew just where to start.

Derrick Bullock knew he was a good cop. He came from a long line of good cops. Sure, he wasn't as skinny as that little pissant Loeb with his track scholarship and college diploma on the desk, but he had a right cross that would take down any punk this side of the Narrows. Still, good cops shouldn't have to deal with the crap he was dealing with. Everyone in the department was on the take these days. Half of them were in Falcone's pocket, running their own scams, protecting his rackets. Hell, that bastard Wayne probably had a few on his payroll too.

With all this on his mind, it was no surprise that he found himself alone, not enjoying the company of his fellow officers, behind the dumpster of the 73rd precinct, smoking a cigarette and trying not to think about the tall bottle of Jameson in his liquor cabinet back home.

His lips ejected a sinuous plume of smoke and he was just about to flick the butt away when he heard something flap above him. His service revolver was out in a flash. He blinked and swore as the shape between his sights coalesced into a dim gray silhouette.

"Good evening, Sergeant Bullock."

Bullock's hand quivered slightly. No one had been able to prove that the Ghost was real. He'd heard mumbled stories from half-drunk beat cops about weird things in the rougher parts of town. Mob flunkies showing up beaten senseless and hog tied, profiteers suddenly showing up on staionhouse doorsteps, just barely ahead of ledgers documenting their misdeeds. Hell, he lived in Gotham. He saw flying Green men on a regular basis, but this was just too much.

"No goddamn way. You ain't real."

He could have sworn he saw a shining white grin reflected out of the shadows. The sight of it made his blood run cold.

"My reality is beside the point, Bullock. I'm here because you're the only cop within twelve blocks of this spot who doesn't have someone else's money lining his pocket. I need to know who's spreading cash around trying to find a certain wayward Englishman."

"The limey? Pennyworth?"

"That's the one."

Bullock racked his brain. Why was this freakshow looking for some butler's kid? Did he know something? More importantly though, what would he do if Bullock didn't tell him anything?

"There were a few guys around besides the usual scumbag wranglers. Better dressed, you know? Looked like lawyers. Said there was big money in it for anyone who could help them find the guy. They talked kinda funny, too."

"Accents? What kind?"

"How the hell should I know?"

"Did they give any names?"

"They left a number. Here."

He reached into the pocket of his trousers and tossed tossed a crumpled ball of paper into the shadows. It was snatched with remarkable ease.

"Thank you, Sergeant. You've been very helpful."

The shape disappeared into the shadows and he breathed out heavily.

"Damned nut."

He nearly shot himself in the foot when a voice whispered quietly in his ear.

"And lay off the whiskey, it makes you slow."


End file.
